Finding Nemo: a parable for parents

We're in another rough phase around here.  It seems that happens whenever we slip into a comfortable place.  I understand that these are the "growing pains" with two young kids who are growing into independence, especially two who inherited the strong wills of their parents.  As much as we prod, cajole, reward, push, demand,encourage, and punish them into obedience, they push right back with attitudes, yelling, defiance, and rude words.  It's a frustrating business of needing to teach them how to behave, and yet feeling my own behavior unravel in the fruitlessness of it all.  The only breakthroughs seem to come when my calm words break through after a day of yelling and reprimands, and I end up with a sad and sobbing boy in my arms, who covers his face and says through hiccups, "I'm in trouble."  I feel broken as well, especially after the girl wakes up in tears twice during the night, and I imagine she is having nightmares of "mean mommy". After reassurances and love, grace and new beginnings, we promise to try again the next day.

Today, I sit in a blissfully quiet house.  John and the kids are off early to church, and I get to lounge around a bit as I'm going to visit a different church this morning in preparation for preaching there next month.  Before they left, Brady cued up an audio version of the "Finding Nemo" story for me to listen to while they are gone.  My sweet boy, his attitude of defiance washed away in his morning bath, wants to share what he loves with me.  Yesterday, John had taken the kids to see the "Finding Nemo" movie in 3D.  (Yes, my husband is awesome.  He's the one who stays at home with the kids, then takes them out on a Saturday morning so that I can get a break.  Bless him.) 

This movie has always tugged at my heart, so it's probably best that I wasn't in the theater with them sobbing my eyes out.  Of course it starts with the death of the mother fish and her eggs, with the exception of Nemo, who has hatched during this traumatic time.  His father, Marlin, is left to raise his only son as a single parent, and is haunted by his losses.  He becomes tightly attached to his son and frets about giving him any freedom or independence, afraid that something bad will happen and he will lose him.  In spite of his best efforts at control, something bad does happen.  Nemo rebels, and swims away into the very danger his father had warned him about.  He is captured by divers, leaving his father and a memory-impaired fish named Dory to search for him.  John came home and shared one of the movie lines with me:
 
Marlin: I promised I’d never let anything happen to him.
Dory: Hmm. That’s a funny thing to promise.








I can so relate.  As a parent, there are so many worries.  Responsibility number one is always to protect our children, and beyond that, we always want to shield them from anything that could hurt them.  All of our rules are either an attempt to keep them safe, or to teach them how to live well in the world.  Part of me naively believes that if I control them and control our situation, then I can keep bad things from happening to them and to our family.  I can keep us in this nice safe bubble.  Although I know that is not reality.  If I've learned one thing in parenthood, it's the fragility of it all, that my sense of control is only an illusion.  I see the harsh realities all around: children battling cancer, accidents, depression, rebellion, death...there is so much hurt and pain, and we can't do much to stop it, only hope and pray that it doesn't touch us.

I know, too, that it's a disservice to protect our children from failure and pain as those are the things that help them to grow, to find their strength and resilience, and to become independent.  Shielding them from experiences also keeps them from experiencing the joy and adventure of life.  As the movie dialogue continues:

Marlin: What?
Dory: Well, you can’t never let anything happen to him. Then nothing would ever happen to him. Not much fun for little Harpo.

In the end, Nemo finds his own strength through his journey of independence, and is able to be the hero, saving both his father and himself.

I pray that I will have the faith to trust that the values we are teaching are sticking somewhere, as evidenced by the moments in which they allow their caring hearts to shine through.  May my letting go of control be for them the gift of independence that will help them grow in strength, courage, and faith.  May we always find one another again and again, even as we fight the currents of the ocean around us.

the 99 things that went right today, and the ONE that went WRONG

It was a day of beauty, puddle hopping, and loving messages scrawled on my office door, of meetings with good friends, and students coming together to share in worship.  There was productivity, and the promise of family hugs and good books at the end.  All was well, except that ONE thing.  It was really not a big deal, but it clouded my thoughts all day.  I had sent out a memo to faculty and knew that some would find it unwelcome or unimportant, yet I tried my best to send it from a humble and supportive place, hoping some would find it helpful.  And the first response was very positive and affirming.  But there wasn't much of a pause between that and the second ding of an incoming email that blasted me for my insensitivity and my erroneous information.  This faculty member felt personally insulted by how I had presented the memo and the timing of it.  Her words seems to scream at me through the email and I recoiled, shutting the message window without even reading it completely.

My first response was anger, as I felt the heat rising to my face, and my immediate impulse was to fire back a response.  Fortunately, I was in the company of friends, so I took a deep breath and tried to put it out of my mind.  It kept popping back, intruding on every positive moment, and I found myself complaining in a meeting about what a crappy day I was having, a day that outside of this one instance had seemed pretty ideal.

Isn't it strange how 99 things can go right, and all we can focus on is the one bad thing?  I continued getting positive responses from my email, so I felt affirmed that my attitude and tone in it had not been insensitive.  I wanted to feel justified, but I mainly felt shame--that someone had pointed out my mistakes, that I had been seen in a different way that what I intended, and that I had unintentionally hurt someone.  Fortunately, I've been reading Brené Brown's new book, Daring Greatly: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead.  If you haven't heard about Brené, you should check out her amazing TED talks .  She is a researcher studying shame and vulnerability at the University of Houston.  She talks about "shame gremlins" and how they sneak up on us and feed on our fears, making us feel that we are not enough.  Because of shame, we often act out in anger and defensiveness and try to ease our pain by hurting others.  

Because of this reading, and because of a lack of time today due to back-to-back meetings, I was unable to react and had to wait until the end of the day to craft a response.  Thankfully, I'd had the time to identify my shame triggers, think about how the other person was reacting out of pain, and I was able to apologize for my errors and the hurt I had caused.  I received another response later that thanked me for my kindness, and continued to correct me, but this time out of a spirit of helpfulness and cooperation instead of attack.  I'm grateful that we now have the potential to work together instead of having an adversarial relationship.  How easy it would have been for either of us to go in a different direction.  After hearing about the divisions between faculty and staff on campus, this was my first experience of the tension that exists.  But it's hopeful to know how it can be cut with vulnerability, openness, and communication instead of reactivity. 

Where did you come from, big girl?

There are times when each day seems like a year, and others, when I look away for a second and turn back to see that she's suddenly grown up.  Overnight, the kids have outgrown their car seats and their clothes.  She, my clingy mama's girl, once shy and reserved is now my chatterbox, full of giggles and observations about everything under the sun.  She came home from preschool this year, just as I had begun to accept her introversion and not push her, and announced with pride, "Mama, I'm not shy anymore!" And her teachers concurred.  Each day another one at her school and church comments on how she has come out of her shell and has become a leader.

I look, and see my beauty, all legs and bright blue eyes, twinkling smile...she just glows, and I am struck with wonder that she came from me, and that she is the same child I carried and carried and carried.  Now it's, "Mama, want to color with me?" and she does swirls of raspberry and glittery blue, hearts and stars, and a mommy wearing a pink heart dress.  Every inch of the page is covered with rainbow hues and each piece tells a story that she is eager to share.  It's "Mama, come play something special with me" and she directs "Lalalucy" (aka: Lalaloopsy) and all her "babies" as I watch with a bemused smile.  She asks me questions about what we should do next, and my suggestions are always met with, "Ok, let's do this instead..."

I am not so caught up in nostalgia. Up until this point, I was submerged in the monotony of a daily routine that never diverged from the endless tantrums, messes, no sleep, and growing pains of two young children.  I was floundering and I do NOT want to go back.  It is still not easy, but I'm more struck these days by the beauty of random moments.  I'm more melancholy, wanting to grasp these moments that are slipping by so quickly.  The moments when I can savor their sweetness and not become a screaming mess of impatience and frustration (that is mirrored back to me in their responses and tempers).  Time when my boy and girl claim to be "best friends" and demand weekend "sleepovers" in Brady's room.  The afterschool competition to see who can fill me in on his or her day without interruption from an eager sibling.  The knowing smiles from other mothers, amused by her animated chatter as she gets a pedicure (an indulgence she discovered early in her young life).

And then, today, her question murmured to me at lunch as her daddy left the table for a moment:
"Do boys kiss girls, or do girls kiss boys?"  I stammered a little, unprepared, "Well, I guess it can work either way.  Why do you ask?"  She said, unsure, "I don't know that I want a boy to kiss me."  I told her with relief that it was perfectly okay, and she should never be kissed unless she wanted to be, and that she could always say "no" to anyone who attempted it.  I asked her if she wanted to kiss anyone, and she thought for a moment and said, "Maybe Brady".  He said, "Yay!" and then turned back to his video game.

These are the days I'll remember.